To the side of the road is a path that doesn't look like a path. The grass is matted as if the bodies of a thousand lovers had bedded down and huddled close together along the vegetative crease.
Run down it to the point where sand and foliage shake hands and lock fingers, where the two are both two and one. The sand crinkled underneath your toes and gives way to pressure, while the bent grass merely affirms your trajectory. The razor grass grows in patches. It whips your calves and thighs and leaves small precise incisions that heal but are not forgotten. Chase the heterogenous path up hills and down valleys, while preening bushes lie languid at your sides, denying the possibility of a future notion.
The ocean beckons at the end and as the trail gets treacherous and unstable, go forth to the noise of waves gently kissing damp sand. The crest of a sand dune will allow the visage of the deep, sublime in scale, implausible in volume.
Whisper your prayers to the mist gusting off the swells and listen for the ocean's eternal answer, the one it gave before you spoke, and the one it will continue to give when you are far away.
